


"Ah"

by Allegory



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Cutting, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 14:10:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9824000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allegory/pseuds/Allegory
Summary: Oops, he, did it again...





	1. Chapter 1

There are cuts on Yuuri’s thighs.

Victor needs a moment to process this. It’s the sort of revelation he gets at the end of an arduous season, when all those months of sweat and push turn out empty-handed, devoid of the gold chunk around his neck. This has only happened to Victor once in his life, when he was a boy with a sprained ankle determined to ride out the competition. He feels smaller than a boy now, smaller than he’s ever been.

“Ah.”

Yuuri’s hands are on his left calf sleeve. Victor observes that he isn’t sure if he should pull it up to conceal the wounds or release it and turn away.

Anxiety seizes Yuuri’s throat; it bobs once, twice, but there is no visible sign of distress on his face. He’s playing Mr. Cool and Collected and Victor is glad because he certainly can’t. His guts are freezing over. Palms sweaty, knees weak. Victor glances at the cuts.

They aren’t deep. No deeper than cat scratches, and would heal in half the time. He supposes this is how Yuuri keeps going on ice without anyone knowing. And why, after a bad routine, Yuuri sometimes places his hand on that part of his thigh, digging his fingers in, just a little.

“Could you,” Yuuri’s voice breaks. The cool night air curls in on them both, giving Yuuri’s gelled back hair an odd toss. A shredded autumn leaf billows in, swinging from side-to-side like a cradled baby before crumpling to the floor. They’re both enraptured by it until Yuuri clears his throat and says, angling his elbow so that the cuts are hidden, “Wait, um, outside?”

“Yes.” Victor says. He straightens in the doorway. “Okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

Outside.

It’s autumn in the Russian countryside. They’re living at the Nikiforov household for the time being; with the off-season finally here, the two are spending more quality time together without numb fingers or sore feet. Doesn’t mean they get to be complacent, though. Victor had already donned his running shirt, cross-fit knee pads, tied his growing hair.

The living room is swarmed with people. Victor has a ton of relatives. He doesn’t know their names or why they’re here, but they don’t care that he’s a sporting sensation with three Lamborghinis, designer shades and no life insurance but compared to the paparazzi, they’re bearable. Victor decides to wait in his room. He sits on a creaky old chair and twiddles his gloved thumbs for a bit, tries to sort things out in his head.

His fingers brush against the gold wedding ring under the gloves. He backtracks to where it might’ve gone wrong, what he might’ve done, all the things he’s learned to do since becoming Yuuri’s coach. Victor likes to think that he’s made some progress as a human being, and Yuuri appears much happier with the way he handles emotions now. Victor bites his bottom lip, rolling it back and forth between his teeth.

When the door opens Victor almost jumps. He glues his butt to the chair. Yuuri stands with his back against the door, shoulders pushed back. His arms are awkwardly aligned by his sides and there’s nothing but silence, the sound of Victor’s alarm clock pulsing grimly in the distance between them. The room is dark, Victor realizes. His curtains are all drawn, and he can’t quite make out Yuuri’s expression. But he bet it hasn’t changed.

“So. Want to...tell me about it?”

This is a stock phrase that Victor had googled online. Yuuri doesn’t answer and it just feels wrong to sit in that position, looking up at Yuuri like he’s some kid who’s about to be grounded. Victor gets up and can’t help his pacing. It happens without him realizing it, striding the length of his room back and forth, forth and back.

Victor doesn’t know where to put his arms. He puts it behind his neck, but it doesn’t feel right. He lets his arms flop. Crosses them around his chest. Flop again.

“Stop.”

Yuuri’s command cuts through the glass fragility of the situation. Victor stiffens and Yuuri continues, his head bowed, “It’s not anything to do with you. Okay?”

Victor doesn’t get to answer. “I’m sorry. I mean, it’s just, nothing serious. An old habit. A little nick here and there.”

Silence swells up and fills the both of them in its bubble. Victor’s going to choke on air. There is absolutely nothing to justify _a little nick_ not being his problem. There is not a single injury that Yuuri obtains from practice, be it a bruise between his toes, a chipped nail, that Victor doesn’t catalogue and take care of.

“We slept together, Yuuri.”

Many times. Always at night, when the lights were off. Yuuri wouldn’t let Victor touch him otherwise. Victor figured he was a still too shy for that.

“Yes,” Yuuri murmurs. “I know.”

Victor blinks. Light pours through the silk curtains during a brief moment of intensity, when he catches the glimmer of a tear snaking down Yuuri’s cheek. The words leave Victor in a rush, “Can I see it again?”

Yuuri sniffs. His tone is raw, a wounded animal on the offense. “No. No, you can’t.”

The accusatory rein of Victor’s speech drives Yuuri out of the room. Victor doesn’t make pursuit. He leans on the wall and strokes his eyeballs. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s real. _And I’m shit._


	3. Chapter 3

Yuuri heads out on the morning run by himself. Victor can’t find Makkachin anywhere, so he assumes the poodle had followed.

He twirls the cellphone in his hand. Inputs one contact, deletes and inputs another. The time is 8.32a.m., not a bad time to call Yakov. Victor had done a lot to nurse their relationship and the grouchy coach had forgiven him, eventually. Yakov might know what to do; he’d seen how Yakov handled some of the more sensitive skaters, and that deep under his thick layers of hard rock and granite is a heart that beats to the tune of his students. Cutting? Victor’s never seen it before. Sure, he’s heard of it as a passing comment, a rumor of skater x-y-z, slashing themselves in the changing rooms. But it’s never been anything of concern, until now.

Victor decides to call. He taps the floorboards until static breaks and the line connects.

“Victor?”

He’s surprised.

Victor runs his fingers through his hair. “Phichit, I need your help with something. Do you have some time to talk?”

“Sure. Just give me a second.”

A blur of noise passes. All the way in Thailand, Phichit gently nudges the orphans limb-by-limb off of him. He apologizes for having to step outside and the nuns are too busy gushing to listen to the grumbling of the children. A tour bus is parked outside the orphanage and hundreds of his fans have swarmed the area; Phichit has made it big since the Grand Prix, winning several tournaments in the region. It makes it difficult for him to find a quiet space but he does, under an oak tree some distance away. The noise of the crowd still leaps through to Russia.

“You were saying?” Phichit asks, leaning against the rough bark.

“It’s about Yuuri,” Victor explains. “When the two of you were roommates, did you notice anything, er, strange about him?”

Phichit mulls over this. Victor paces again. One of his many relatives barges in with a cup of tea that he graciously accepts, only to set aside. Victor watches the steam waft, indolent and lugubrious.

“Nothing I can think of,” he says. Victor’s heart sinks. He’s about to thank Phichit for his time before he adds, “Unless you mean…”

“What is it?” Victor kneels down in front of the tea cup, pressing his palm against the rim. Vapors form under his hand.

Phichit doesn’t say anything for a long while. A day of silences. “It’s happened again, hasn’t it? You saw them.”

“The scratches.”

“The cuts.”

Victor pauses. “I’m sorry?”

“Scratches?” Phichit repeats. He sighs, sounding a hundred years older then. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad, Victor. It used to be much worse.”

Victor’s stomach curdles. “Worse?”

“Surgery. He got surgery sometime when he was a sophomore, and that was how I found out. A couple papers that had missed the trash bin. Receipts.”

Victor presses his wet palm on his face, slides it down his neck. He draws the curtains and the light blinds him momentarily. The view of the countryside comes next, a gentle ocean of grass swaying in the wind. Paddocks, farms, little trails off the horizon. Yuuri. Surgery.

“It was aesthetic,” Phichit feels the need to add. “I think. On his thigh. I might still have a picture of a few receipts.”

“You took pictures?” A surge of anger rises in Victor. Everyone knows Phichit loves to take pictures of everything, but to violate Yuuri’s privacy like that was unethical. Not that Victor wasn’t about to kiss Phichit for it.

“A couple. I thought, just in case, you know—?“ Static. The familiar noise of reporters and paparazzi. “Listen, I’ve got to run. This isn’t the greatest time. I’ll call you about it tonight.”

 _Beep._ The line dies. Victor curses internally but tells himself to be patient. This isn’t something that has a quick fix, and one step in the wrong direction could push Yuuri in a calamitous state. It’s easy, especially with Yuuri, to fall into all sorts of disaster in his mind. Yuuri returns an hour later all clammy with Makkachin by his side. But he doesn't look like he usually does after a good jog; a kind of darkness hangs over him, sinister.


End file.
